Page 25 of Wanderlust With Wolves

I will have her.

I let her get a little too far ahead, let her think she’s clever enough to slip away. The trees close in around me, tall and ancient, their gnarled roots twisting through the earth like secrets buried deep. The wind shifts, cool against my skin, and I inhale, catching the delicate thread of her scent—jasmine and wild honey, tangled with the sharp bite of frost.

She’s smart.

She doubles back, her scent twisting, looping—trying to throw me off.

Clever girl.

But not clever enough.

I pause, inhaling deep. The forest is quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of unseen creatures inthe underbrush. My breath mists in the cold night air, steady, measured, but inside, something stirs.

A thought slithers unbidden into my mind?—

Did she think of someone in particular when she joined this game?

Did she tie these ribbons with the hope that someone would track her?

Someone other than me?

The idea lances through me, sudden and brutal, knocking something loose in my chest. A sharp, violent surge of jealousy cracks through my ribs, down to my bones, burning like wildfire through my veins. My hands curl into fists, claws biting into my palms, breath coming too fast, too ragged.

I should not care.

But I do.

I care so much that the thought of another male even thinking about catching her—touching her, scenting her, claiming her?—

A growl rips through my throat, low and threatening, vibrating through the night like the promise of a storm. The birds in the trees go silent. The wind shifts. Even the shadows seem to pause, waiting, watching.

She is mine.

I will not let anyone else lay a single finger on her.

I will wipe every other scent from her skin, I will erase the idea of any other name in her mind, until all that remains is me.

I crash through the underbrush,snapping branches and rustling leaves, making a show of fumbling my way past her hiding spot.

Letting her think she’s winning.

Letting her think she’s outmaneuvered me.

I hear it?—

That giddy little laugh, a sound so pure and bright it makes my blood heat. It sends a rush of something fierce and primal straight through me, winding tight around my ribs. She thinks she’s safe. She thinks she’s doing well.

I double back, moving silent as a shadow, circling around until I can see her.

Maya is tucked low in the brush, peeking out, scanning the trees, grinning to herself like she’s figured out some grand mystery. Moonlight spills over her, catching in the wild tangle of her hair, gilding her skin with silver. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming quick and eager. The sight of her—so radiant, so alive—makes something in my chest go tight, makes my claws twitch with the need to touch.

Oh, sweetheart.

I watch her, drinking in every inch of her?—

The wildness in her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rises and falls with exertion, the way her hands brace against the earth, steadying herself. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat—she is mine.

Her scent is everywhere, thick in the air, wrapping around me like a noose, like a prayer. It seeps into my skin, into my lungs, into my blood.

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